VII (Seven) Page 10

  “So talk to me, partner,” Mischa says mockingly. “Tell me something amusing. Maybe…” He taps his chin as if he’s thinking, but there’s something on his mind. The reason behind his hostility maybe?

  I’m caught off guard by how desperately a part of me wants that to be the case. At least we can finally get it out into the goddamn open.

  Then he says, “Maybe you can tell me why Sergei Vasilev stopped asking for you?”

  “What?” It takes everything I have to school my face into a blank mask. “What are you talking about?” At least the confusion in my voice sounds genuine. The last time I saw the wizened rival to my captor, he gave me a necklace. One still around my throat now, though I don’t dare reach for it.

  “Don’t play dumb.” Mischa circles to the opposite end of the desk and leans against it, bracing his palms flat over the surface. “The old man is planning something and you are in the center of it, I bet. I noticed his sudden change of heart before your little accident.”

  Yet he said nothing. Why? He turns away, denying me the chance to discern anything from his expression. His posture is just as inscrutable.

  “Did you speak to him?” he wonders. “Or maybe you made a deal? He’d treat you to a nicer cage if you traded yourself in return. Was he the one who served you up to Nikolaus—”

  “Why are you so concerned about me and other men?” I find myself blurting. “Even my husband wasn’t that possessive.”

  It’s a lie, but Mischa chuckles nonetheless. “Possessive? Oh, no, Little Rose. I’m on my guard.”

  The look in his eye chills me to the core.

  Licking my lips, I risk asking, “What could I possibly do to you?”

  The answer is obvious without him having to say it: nothing.

  Right now, I couldn’t even slap him if I wanted. Already, I’m doubting that I’ll have the strength necessary to return to my room without his help.

  Lost in self-pity, I almost miss his genuine chuckle.

  “What could you do?” His eyes narrow and focus inward at something only he can see. Finally, he grits his teeth. “A woman like you can do more damage alone than a thousand Robert Winthorps. Do you want to know how?” He pauses for a second before answering himself. “Because you can sneak into someone’s fucking head and twist it. You play them like little puppets. Don’t you?”

  Denying him would only set him off. I can see it, the anger lying in wait, anticipating the second I’ll light the fuse. With Robert, I’d know exactly what role to play and what words to say.

  With Mischa? I can only act on instinct and hope for the best.

  “I want to ask you something,” I tell him. “And if you answer me honestly, I’ll forget how you’ve insulted me. I won’t mention Robert again and I swear that I’ll respect whatever boundaries you set—”

  “And there you go,” Mischa growls. “Trying to get inside my fucking head!”

  “A question,” I say calmly in the wake of his shouts. “Just one. What did I do to make you so goddamn angry? Do you even know?”

  His nostrils flare as he pushes back from the desk. Deliberately, his hands flex in and out of fists, and I tense in anticipation of his next move. To hit me?

  “Why? You,” he finally admits. He approaches me and flicks his finger along my jaw once he’s close enough. “You made me so goddamn angry—”

  “Tell me why.” I bite back another phrase. Use your big words. It’s what Mother would sternly encourage Briar during the worst of her tantrums. Speak. Explain. “Just say it!”

  “Fine.” He frowns, still stroking alongside my chin. “Did you mean it?” There’s no anger in his voice. Just cold curiosity.

  “Mean what?”

  “Those things you said to Nikolaus. About me.”

  “W-what?” I rack my brain, fighting to remember. “Oh,” I rasp as my own boasts come back to haunt me: You are half the man Mischa is. Fire floods my cheeks as I recall the other things I said—to save my life. Did I mean them? “I…”

  “And there you go.” He sinks down into a crouch and grips my chin, forcing me to face him directly. “Playing your mind games again.”

  “And what if I did?” I say. “What if I meant them?”

  His mocking sneer falls flat, and he stands, withdrawing his hand. “Then I’d know you really were a goddamn liar.”

  “And you?” Consequences aside, I reach out, grasping his forearm. To my surprise, he doesn’t wrench away. Yet. “For all your talk of hating me and how fucking awful I am, why do you even care? Are you jealous of him? Of Robert?”

  He laughs. “Oh, Little Rose. I wouldn’t get any cute ideas. I would be wary of you even if you weren’t his wife.” His tone is too smug.

  Experience warns me not to challenge him. The words are already out of my mouth regardless. “Why then?”

  “Why?” He brings his face close to mine, inhaling my scent. “Because of who your mother is, Little Rose. I’ve heard the stories… But I’m not allowed to mention her, am I?”

  I can’t disguise the pain constricting my face. Satisfied, he turns away, another battle won.

  “Wait.” Fighting back tears, I fix my gaze on him as he stops paces from the door. “I can’t make it back to my room alone,” I admit. “And you can hold your grudge if you want and insult me if that soothes whatever pride of yours you think I damaged—”

  His lips spring apart, but I keep talking.

  “Just know that I’m too tired to hate you. In fact, I don’t hate you. And I refuse to be your punching bag.”

  He grinds his teeth, smothering whatever words are fighting to escape his throat. Or perhaps he’s chewing on them, ensuring each one is loaded with lethal, biting candor.

  “You don’t hate me, huh? So then why do you flinch every fucking time I touch you? In the bath,” he adds as my eyebrows furrow. Then he puffs up confidently, ready to challenge a lie or excuse.

  I recall my shock at how he maneuvered the rag, and the confession spills from me before I can censor it. “I…I didn’t expect you to be gentle.”

  Faced with the truth, he deflates, frowning. I don’t know how long we stay like that, watching each other in silence.

  Mischa senses someone approaching first. He’s already standing by the desk, his arms crossed, when one of his men enters the room.

  “Pakhan, I…” The man trails off, spotting me.

  “You can speak,” Mischa commands. “What is it?”

  The man casts me another furtive glance but then sighs before clearing his throat. “You wanted to know if anyone might oppose you at the next gathering after what happened with Nikolaus?”

  Mischa tilts his head at full attention. “And?”

  “Your position seems solid. Nearly everyone responded to our inquiries with full support—”

  “Good,” Mischa says, nodding.

  “But…” The man rocks back and forth on his heels. “Gabriel Medvedev and Sergei Vasilev haven’t responded. Yet.”

  “Oh?” Something icy flits across Mischa’s gaze. “Now I know why Vanya sent you in his place.”

  “Pakhan—”

  “Enough,” Mischa snaps. “Inquire again, and this time, you come to me directly with their answers. Especially Sergei’s.”

  The man nods and races off.

  “And you…” Mischa addresses me, his eyes downcast. He rubs his chin, thinking. “You really want to prove your worth to me?”

  “And I haven’t already?”

  He seems to mull it over. Then he shakes his head. Apparently, I haven’t.

  “What do you want?” I demand.

  “You,” he says simply. The candor in his tone makes my body deflate of anger. “I want your loyalty, Little Rose. Are you willing to stand beside me if I ask you to?”

  He’s deliberately vague—not that it makes a difference. In his world, I have few options but him.

  Or Sergei.

  I fight to school my expression as I consider the possibility for even a secon
d. Would I dare trust a man I don’t know? A man whose only tie to me is through a woman who I’m beginning to realize I never understood at all?

  It takes me just seconds to settle on an answer.

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  Mischa cocks an eyebrow, but for once, I sense that he’s more intrigued than angered. “Oh, but you do, Little Rose. You know you do. But I don’t want your answer now. In fact, I don’t think I want you to say a damn thing. I want you to show me.”

  “How?”

  Movement from the corner of my eye reveals that he’s circling around to my end. His breath strikes the nape of my neck as my wheelchair jolts forward. Moments later, we’re back in the room with my designated sick bed.

  I eye the sheets as Mischa brings me up to the mattress. He pulls them down and a familiar scent irritates my nostrils. Lavender. When he starts to slide his hand beneath my waist, I stop him, gripping his forearm.

  “I’m not tired,” I croak. It’s a more dignified way of saying what I can’t out loud: Don’t make me stay here again.

  “Suit yourself.” He releases the wheelchair and heads for the door. “Have your run of the house, Little Rose. Walk the grounds to your heart’s content. I have nothing to hide.”

  The boast would sound more convincing if it weren’t for the harshness in his voice.

  A man like him lives to hide and obfuscate.

  After all, what is a monster without his secrets?

  Chapter 16

  “Have your run of the house.”

  What I first interpreted as a cruel joke turns out to be far more nuanced once I inch my way into the hall, alternating arms to wheel myself along. Things I never noticed before take on a newer context. Like how, despite the obvious age of the manor, the rooms sport newer doors, slightly wider than most. Or at least I assume so given how easy I can maneuver my chair through them.

  Aljona. Perhaps, after all this time, I’ve finally learned the real name of the woman haunting Mischa. Not Anna-Natalia, but his sister. A twin.

  They left her there, twisted in the wreckage.

  Was this chair hers once upon a time?

  I wander aimlessly, creeping down the hall at a snail’s pace, hunting for clues from a new perspective. I wonder if her room was the red one. Perhaps those clothes were hers. The perfume. The red bed with its heavy canopy.

  No. Mischa would hide her memory somewhere more sacred than that. Perhaps down this hall I can’t remember venturing in before? The soft carpet cushions the wheels of the chair and I only have to use half the effort. At random, I stop beside a door and open it.

  I don’t find a bedroom at the other end—or a figurative crypt. Instead, a section of the floor pitches gradually into shadow. Almost like a stairwell, but devoid of steps. Without thinking, I run my hand along the nearest wall, finding a light switch.

  Orange light illuminates what could be a wooden slide that curves toward the interior of the house.

  My throat goes dry as I ease myself along the curving path. It’s no longer than the servant’s staircase at Winthorp Manor. Within seconds, I’m on the lower level of the house. Back near the dining room, I suspect.

  So Mischa wasn’t lying about having a sister.

  The reality of that fact stuns me, leaving me motionless in a shadowed section of the hall. All the things he said take on a new context. The pain in his voice. More than that: the skill and care with which he cleaned me. Cared for me.

  And maybe now I know the real reason as to why he was so angry with me. Ironically enough, I doubt even he knows the answer. At its core, it’s the same reason why Robert Sr. hated me.

  I’m not his sister. If anything, I’m just a stark, painful reminder that she’s gone.

  And what he’s become.

  A monster.

  A murderer.

  My tormentor.

  Lost in thought, I maneuver myself backward and escape up the ramp. Minutes later, I’m back inside the white room, and I risk injuring myself again just to crawl onto the mattress. It isn’t long before Vanya delivers another meal.

  When he’s gone, I wait, somehow knowing what’s in store before I even hear the heavy footsteps thud against the floor. When he appears in the doorway, he looks more ragged than he did earlier. His hair has been scraped into a messy knot on the top of his head, his jaw lined in a five-o’clock shadow. With little fanfare, he strips his shirt in the darkness but leaves his jeans on as he advances on the bed.

  “I know you’re awake, Little Rose,” he calls to me. “I can smell you there, fucking festering in your haughty little pride. You got pretty far, even hobbled. Maybe I’ll take the chair? Make you crawl? I’d love to see you always on your knees…”

  I stiffen beneath the sheets. Did he sense me there in the hallway after all? But no. He sounds more callous than vengeful. Aggravated. Once again, something has him itching for a fight.

  And a part of me feels exhausted enough to give him one. Let him play his silly game.

  “Tell me about your sister,” I demand, lunging for the one topic that I suspect affects him the most. “What was she like?”

  He stops in his tracks, impossible to read in the shadow. “My sister?” he echoes thickly. “She was better than you.”

  “You never mentioned her before,” I point out, ignoring his insult. “Why? You talked about your mother. Anna. Never her.”

  My skin prickles, and I can imagine his expression: eyes narrowed, spitting fire.

  “Maybe you aren’t worthy enough to hear her fucking name?” he challenges.

  But there’s more to it than that. It’s in the pain lurking in his voice. The gritted, grated undertone to every word.

  “How did she die?”

  “Oh, Little Rose…” He laughs that cruel, callous laugh and my stomach sinks. I’ve gone too far. “Do you think you can handle the gory details? Are you that hungry to hear tales of your husband’s crimes?”

  Of Robert? No. My tongue flits across my lower lip in a futile bid for silence. I want to say nothing. “You said she had your soul,” I blurt out instead.

  “Oh?” The mattress jolts as Mischa lowers himself onto it, sitting with his back toward me. His shape flickers, followed by a heavy thud. He’s taking off his boots. “Do you think I’ll cry if I relay her pain to you? You want to feel sympathy for me, the monster of your precious fucking fairytale with Robert Winthrop?”

  “I want to understand you.” My cheeks flame at the confession, but it’s too late to take it back. Sighing, I continue. “Vanya said that you used to be different—no. I know you used to be different.”

  Sixteen years ago, he saved my life. Even if he didn’t realize just who I was at the time. For the first time in ages, I let myself picture him as he must have been then. His face was softer. His posture was lighter. His sister was still alive, I suspect.

  “She died, Little Rose,” Mischa says, his tone cold and final. “It doesn’t matter how. All that matters is the why: Your family took her away from me—”

  “You’re not the only one who lost someone to the Winthorps.”

  Oh, God no. My fingers fly to my lips as if to seal the confession away. But it’s too late.

  Like a shark sensing fresh blood, Mischa cocks his head. His arm sweeps out and the fingers aim for my stomach. “You mean this,” he says without elaborating. It’s like the bastard is in my head, sensing the thoughts I’ve locked away, even from myself. “Tell me.”

  “No.”

  His hand presses more firmly, as if he can crush the answers from me. “Why?”

  “Because…” I close my eyes as the truth escapes me once again. “Because I don’t trust you. I don’t trust you not to use it against me—and I will die if you use this against me.”

  “Die,” he scoffs. Then the bed shifts as he lies back, stretching his legs out before him, but he says nothing as he thinks. “You think I care about what upsets you?”

  I’m prepared for his mocking, but his voice lacks
the hostility I’m used to. Instantly, my guard rises. “I think you care about very few things.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  I jump as my hair is disturbed. He’s taken a lock of it, twisting it around his fingers.

  “I don’t care about a damn thing.”

  “That’s a sad way to live,” I say, my voice rasping.

  “Is it?” His voice is louder, murmured near my ear. “And what about you, Robert’s wife? What do you care about in that tiny, shriveled heart of yours? Him?”

  I sigh, suddenly exhausted. Years of suffering Robert’s games have never drained me like a few minutes with Mischa does.

  “I want to know why you are the way you are,” I tell him. “I want to know what makes you tick. I want to know why a man like you is so afraid of seeming like anything less than a heartless monster. Even for a second.”

  “And I want to know why a woman like you would sell your soul to Robert Winthorp.” He grips my chin, wrenching my head in his direction.

  In the dark, he looks more demonic than human. All I can make out are his eyes. Flashing, fiery embers.

  “I want to know why that same woman would give herself to me. Why sometimes she looks at me like I’m her fucking dog and she owns my leash.” He yanks me closer and his breath on my neck burns me. Consumes me. “I want to know why she moans my name when I’m inside her and whispers his in her sleep. I want to know why she’s in my head. Inside my fucking skin.”

  He slithers over me, bracing his weight on either side of my head while his torso hovers above mine. His mouth is a furnace, scorching the skin of my neck, each word like a flame. “I want to know why she plays her games with me. Toys with me. Am I that much of a fucking animal to her?” Then he lifts a hand from the bed to grasp my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze when I try to turn away. “That much of a fucking fool…”

  He lowers his face to my neck. Sharp pinching pain makes me gasp and flinch into the sheets. He bit me.

  “I want her to answer me,” he growls into my skin. “I want her to fucking admit it. Come clean. You want to seduce me. None of it is fucking real—”

  All I have to cling to are his own words. “It’s just sex.”